Going to Pasalacqua
by the ersatz diplomat
Summary: Despite the loss of a busty ale wench, this evening still rated better than Remus's last birthday, which he had spent in stony silence, seemingly refusing to ever talk to Sirius again. But of course, that had been Sirius’s own damned fault.


**Title:** Going to Pasalacqua  
**Word Count:**1,542  
**Characters:** Remus, Sirius, cake, vodka  
**Rating:** T-ish, for teenage boy language and drinking  
**Author's Note:** This is for the supafly Tierfal, who requested the prompts "cake" or "lie" or "the cake is a lie." It is not _really_ slash, it's ambiguous! And cute. Title is from the eponymous Green Day song.

_I'm in for nasty weather, but I'll take whatever you can give that comes my way._

* * *

Between the creak of the front door opening and the glass-rattling crack of it being slammed shut, Sirius bounded out of the kitchen like he was in a race and the starting bell had rung. He slid to a stocking-footed stop on the yellowed linoleum in the living room.

"Happy birthday, Moo—"

The soggy, backlit figure before him scowled, shucked off a second-hand jacket, flopped down on the shabby gray couch, kicked off a pair of hand-me-down Chucks, and scowled again.

"—oony?

"Thanks." Remus picked absently at a bandage wrapped around his hand—he had a dark and yellowing bruise under one swollen eye, and a split lip that still oozed a drop of blood. He pulled his knees up against his chest, curling into the sofa as if he could fall between the cushions like spare change.

"Well," Sirius managed an observational tone and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "You look like shit. What happened, the roller derby girls beat you up again?"

"I thought we agreed not to talk about that."

"Ah, sorry." Black shuffled over and dropped down next to him, ruffling his hair. "Tell Mummy what happened, then."

Without preface, or acknowledgement that Sirius had just called himself 'Mummy,' he launched into a story it seemed he had been dying to tell all day. The words sped out, hurried, bumping into one another in a pained stammer.

"So for the past few weeks I—I've been seeing that girl Val who works at that pub, the one with the nose ring, yeah? Short, blonde, kinda looks like Debbie Harry? You know, the one with those _huge_—"

"Yeah, Val-of-the-pub, nose ring, giant knockers, yes?"

"Well," Remus paused, drawing a breath. "I'm not anymore."

Sirius could see where this was headed—to a serious hangover — and rummaged in the end table drawer for a pack of crisps. These he tossed to the boy slouched in the corner; no one should have to mourn the loss of busty ale wench on an empty stomach.

"Why not?"

"Forgot about my appointment with _la bella luna_, last night," he ripped open the bag with zeal and shoved a handful of crisps in his mouth."I accidentally double-booked. Five weeks, Sirius. I made it all of five weeks."

"Oh." Sirius wondered what it would be like to date the same woman for five whole weeks, and groped under a cushion, producing a bottle two-thirds full of Russia's finest. "Here, drink."

He did, coughing and wiping the sleeve of his shirt across his mouth. "Last night she and I were supposed to, y'know…" Remus stopped, shot a deeply meaningful look at Sirius from under damp hair, and said, _"You know."_

"Oh?"

"Mrrgh." A plaintive grumble escaped him as he slid off the couch and onto the floor. He leaned his head against Sirius's knee, clutching the bottle and sulking in a way only a sex-deprived newly-eighteen-year old can. "She came over to James's place last night, but nobody was home 'cause James and Lily are out doing wedding things, and I was at the Shack. I forgot to reschedule our date…and I forgot to make up a good excuse—"

"Sick auntie," Sirius offered.

"Working late."

"Got an urgent letter from the Queen."

"Volunteering at the animal shelter."

"I'm donating blood."

"I'm gay."

"My goldfish needs an operation."

"I've contracted cholera."

"I was cursed by a Santería priest."

"And the ever-useful—"

"I've got to see a man about a dog," they finished together, laughing.

"Lies, all lies!" Remus said. He drew a sharp breath through his teeth. "Anyway. She's sick of me being mysterious and sick of me lying to her, and refuses to talk to me. And she hit me in the mouth."

"I thought girls liked 'mysterious.'"

"Girls like to _solve_ mysteries. You know, like Nancy Drew, or Miss Marple." He took another long drink, looking dangerously contemplative. "I'd wager Nancy gets laid a lot more often than Miss Marple does."

"And definitely more than you."

Remus ignored him and picked at the frayed knee of his jeans. "I'd really like to not die a virgin."

When James or Peter had said it, Sirius laughed. Moony wanted to be loved and there was a definite difference; love implied a kind of debt, a responsibility to those who loved you, something he just couldn't pay, through no fault of his own.

"You won't."

"Pfft. The chances for it are fair, if we keep running those 'errands' for Dumbledore's Phoenix people." His bandaged hands flailed frantically, then laced together on top of his head. Tufts of sandy brown hair stuck out wildly between the webs of his fingers.

Sirius supposed he should say something reassuring, but it wasn't his style. He smirked.

"Hey, if you're really that desperate, I'm available."

"Ah, Mr Black, you've stolen enough of my innocence, leave the deflowering for someone else, will you?" He said this with a surprising amount of coherency for someone staring through a label-peeled bottle of Stolichnaya. Remus's eyes were hugely blue, and he giggled. "Deflowering…That sounds painful. Like hedge shears are involved." He mimed pruning Sirius's kneecap. "Maybe a shovel."

Blacklaughed until his ribs ached and took a squashy pack of cigarettes from an end table drawer. He shook two out. "I'm sorry for your loss. She had a nice pair of—"

"Thanks for the sentiment and all, but I'd rather not think of those right now..."

Despite the loss of a busty ale wench, this evening still rated better than the last birthday, which he had spent in stony silence, seemingly refusing to ever talk to Sirius again. Of course, that had been Sirius's fault, because he was an idiot and hated certain people more than was really necessary. Remus had forgiven him, eventually; the boy held a grudge and had a surprisingly mean left hook, and Black decided it wasn't a good idea to cross him, bookishness and supposed fragility be damned.

Of course, Remus had forgiven him for all the burnt homework, failed pranks, stinkbombs, detentions, and every time he had accidentally called him Regulus, but for a whole day Sirius was sure he had lost a friend.

Their silences were amicable now, the vodka was gone and the cracked glass ashtray was littered with spent cigs when Sirius jumped to his feet.

"Hey, I almost forgot. I made you something for your birthday."

"Is it a package bomb?" Remus looked almost hopeful, and on the fast track to a morning meeting with the porcelain throne.

"Well…no. It isn't."

"Is it explosive at all?" he called after Sirius, who sauntered into the kitchen and returned with a huge slice of chocolate layer cake on a chipped china plate. He plopped down next to Remus, who was staring at it in wide-eyed rapture, and proffered a fork.

"Oh my god!" He grabbed him by the collar and kissed him soundly on the cheek, leaving a sticky liquor smear. "Cake!"

Sirius took this by way of a 'thank you' and wiped his face with the back of his hand. "You're drunk."

He inhaled the cake, wolfed it down like he hadn't eaten all day— he probably hadn't, but it was still a pitiful joke, and Sirius was sure it would be back to haunt him in a few hours, if the poor lad found the Jaegermeister wedged between the sofa cushions. He was sure if Remus hadn't beaten himself into Remus-colored mush the night before, in half an hour's time he'd be on the coffee table air-guitaring to 'Should I Stay or Should I Go' and wearing a necktie around his head like Rambo.

"What's the filling?"

"Ground beef."

"…Interesting."

"You wanna watch Doctor Who?"

"Sure."

The cake was gone when he flopped back down on the couch, having twiddled the channel dial through two dozen different television programmes. He flicked off the table lamp and Remus clambered up next to him, curling up in the fetal position with the top of his head against Sirius's hip, then pulled a wooly, granny-square afghan from the back of the sofa and huddled underneath it.

"Sirius."

"Yeah, mate."

"Thanks, y'know," he slurred, knitting his bruised fingers into the loose weave of the blanket.

"No problem."

"Sirius."

"Yeah?"

"You can date her if you want, I'm just warning you, she hits really hard."

"Yeah, I think I'll pass on that one, but thanks for the offer."

"You're welcome. Hey, Sirius."

"Yes?"

"You're my favorite. Don't tell James."

"I won't," he chuckled, putting his feet up on the coffee table. He straightened out the shabby afghan—Remus looked asleep, his mouth was half-open. The cathode ray glow of the television erased his bruises into fickle patches of dark and light.

"Sirius…"

"Hmm?"

"Love you."

"Go to sleep, Moony," Sirius laughed, though it wasn't funny and he tried not to think about how no one had ever said that to him before and meant it. It had been implied, at one time by his mother, said by James, by girls, but the actual words were as heavy as lead, as fragile as glass, and he didn't know what to do with them.

* * *

Reviews are better than cake! (and almost as good as liquor)


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